“I tell you he was a frien’ of Mist. Vernon’s,” we heard Minerva say.
“Well, then, Mr. Vernon has a thief for a friend.”
We exchanged meaning glances. Our friend of the night before had evidently been traced as far as our house. There was nothing to do but to go forward and accept the inevitable.
I went into the kitchen, followed by Ethel. A large, determined looking man was sitting on a chair in the middle of the floor; by his side stood a strapping mulatto, and Minerva, stopped midway in her dishwashing and with something of sleepiness still in her eyes, was standing by the stove.
“How are you?” This from me.
“Good morning. My name is Collins, and I’m a constable. The Fayerweather’s house was robbed last night and the thief got away with the goods.”
I assumed a look of great unconcern, but I felt that Minerva was devouring me with her eyes.
“That’s bad,” said I.
“Yes, it’s bad, but it might be worse. I find that he came as far as here, and your girl says that you entertained him with a midnight supper. Where is he now; hiding?”
His tone was insolent, and my tone was correspondingly dignified.